I’m Pretty Sure This Will Happen to Most of Us.
April 25, 2023
It happened tonight at the gym. It happens all the time when I’m working with high school students, having drinks at bar, walking my dog, watching television.
I feel a tiny wince somewhere in my chest, I wish I was that young. I’d like a do over or a do it all again.
This doesn’t last long. I don’t have the option of wallowing when I’m raising a twelve pound weight over my head, explaining the difference between subsidized and unsubsidized loans to a seventeen year old, or hanging out with my friends.
We’re all so busy lately. I’m busy, my friends are busy, everyone at work is losing their minds. Some of my colleagues are eating lunch at their desks, staying long after doors lock and sending emails at 2 am Sunday morning. (Not me. I have lunch with my friends, but that’s a different story, because my friends at work are the best.)
Essentially, I have too much going on to dwell on my age, or whatever the hell age I’d like to be.
Tonight, I dwelled.
When I was in high school, I drank Miller Lite behind the bathroom at the Tourne, a park in my hometown. A lot of people did this, I was known for being Rob’s shadow and spent the first six months of our relationship agreeing with everything Rob said, until we’d been together for a few months.
Around this time, I discovered the excruciating joy of passionate arguments in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the snow, barefoot, because whatever the hell we were fighting was so important it couldn’t wait four hour until he picked me up for school. When I wasn’t whipped up and hysterical about Rob, I used my free time to squabble with my mom about why I had to empty the dishwasher when we had a housecleaner, and walk around a lake called Mountain Lake. I didn’t do any homework or play any sports, but it’s obvious, I was quite busy.
During my twenties, I was sad. My father died when I was twenty-two, and although he’d been sick for a while, his loss hit hard. I wasn’t hospitalized; I went to school, held some jobs, went through the motions, but looking back, I see a sad girl who should have been in therapy.
During my thirties, the first thing my brain tells me to write is I had a damn good time. I was on guest lists, went to concerts in limos, stayed up until dawn playing backgammon, and weirdly enough, talking about high school. I shopped. I hung out at the pool on the roofdeck on the Sheridan. I went to Walden Pond whenever my friend was kind enough to take me, and if she wasn’t up for it, I took a cab out to Concord and made the driver wait until I was finished. (I had a collection of cabdrivers that drove me places and brought me food and alcohol when I didn’t want to leave the house or the liquor stores were closing.)
Most nights, when we were out, I’d leave first, and head back to my apartment to wait for my friends to come over after the bars closed. I don’t like waiting in line for the bathroom and crowds make me uncomfortable. The limos were nice, and the concerts were amazing, but mostly, what I remember is trying to locate the limos after the concerts. That was not fun, and often took a very long time. Backgammon is fun, especially when you’re winning, but Walden and winning backgammon games aren’t enough to redeem a decade that, from this angle, looks pretty shallow.
I had children in my forties. I remember trying to hold slippery Kate up in the sink so I could wash her hair, and almost dropping her, because I turned around to look at the clock. I needed to know how many more minutes until I could put her to bed.
I skipped through parts of Lemony Snicket when I was reading to Colin because I wanted to get back downstairs to some tv show.
I loved taking them to the pool but we didn’t go often because of how long it would take to get them in and out of their swimsuits. And sometimes, while they were swimming, they’d need to pee. It was so inconvenient, those three to six minutes of helping my kids get ready to play in the water.
As they grew older, they started to move in another direction. I’d take them to the park, leave my book and phone behind, and they’d meet their friends. We’d go for a hike, and they’d want to turn around after thirty minutes so we could go for pizza.
By the time they were teenagers, I caught glimpses. I memorized conversations and wrote about them on Facebook, not to brag, but so I’d have records. I drove Katy anywhere she wanted to go, just to have time in the car. I tried to connect with Colin, but he started drifting away around age fourteen. The only time we spoke was when he lost something in the laundry, the only real conversations we had were in the car when we were on the way home from the police station.
Now, Colin is twenty-two and Katy is nineteen. Neither one of them live at home, but we talk. Colin tells me about his new apartment and sends pictures of his food all the time; this is a trend I don’t understand. Katy shares stories about frat parties I’m pretty sure not every parent hears, sends pictures of her new haircut, her new chair, her form in deadlift, and lately, has let me listen while she tries to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. Right now, archivist, physical therapist assistant, and media consultant are all on the table. She is also considering archaelogy but I guess the prospects for employment are dismal.
My kids are entirely different, but they pick up the phone when I call. Sometimes I have to call twice and then text, but they pick up.
The only do over I’d like is those fleeting moments when they were really small. I’d sit on the floor with Katy and color, instead of leaving her at the coffee table while I sat at kitchen table on my desktop computer. Colin loved playing with tiny plastic animals, I have no idea what he did with tiny plastic animals, but I wish I knew. I wish I didn’t always rush him off the swings, he loved the swings.
I think most parents go back to wishing they’d had just a little more time giving baths and cutting up vegetables. Maybe that’s why so many want grandchildren; I haven’t gotten there yet.
I’m good with where I am now. I live with a pup who thinks going to bed at nine is almost as much fun as eating cookies.
I work, and eat lunch, with people I like, for students who need my help. I don’t spend a fortune on records, (Spotify!). I like to cook.
I wake up without a hangover; I take my time getting ready because I’ve laid my clothes out the night before.
My kids talk to me, and quite often, when I say something, they listen.
Cancel the do-over.
I need to stop time.
Homecoming
October 6, 2021
I’ve been thinking about my high school reunion since the invitation came last May.
There was Covid to consider. And the memory of the last one I attended where the night ended with me falling up my friends stairs and splitting my forehead open. There was the twenty pounds I wanted to lose, and the people I didn’t want to see, and the people I missed.
One night, I finally clicked yes on the Evite, knowing I could always cancel. It was late Spring of 2021; I wanted a plan to get out of town and see some faces that I hadn’t been seeing for the past year and a half.
Amy, one of my best friends, still lives in Mountain Lakes, and she volunteered to go along, even though she wasn’t in my class, and isn’t much for cocktail parties.
A week before the party, my friend came to visit me in Boston. Taylor, Amy’s daughter, had been found in bed by her roommate, unable to open her eyes and mumbling into her pillow. Her roommate called an ambulance.
Before she left, she laughed nervously in my living room and asked me- “Maybe you can come down anyway next weekend? And take care of me? While I look after Taylor? I mean, I know you have your reunion…” I hugged her and thought there was no way I’d drive five hours, miss a party that I had given up Ben and Jerry’s for, (mostly), so she could lean on me while her daughter recovered from a really bad case of the flu?
It wasn’t a bad case of the flu.
On the Thursday before the reunion, I flew to New Jersey. Amy’s husband picked me up at the airport. On the way home we talked about my daughter’s SAT scores, how much harder it is to pack for travel by plane than to load up a car, and that my husband thinks Facebook updates on his phone are actually text messages to him. No one knew what was wrong with Taylor for a while. Now they think it’s encephalitis. Tonight, John, Amy’s husband, let me know Taylor hasn’t had any seizures all day. This has made all of us who love her giddy with joy.
She hadn’t had any seizures for twelve hours. It’s going to be a long time before she gets better. It’s going to be a long time before she comes home.
I didn’t visit Taylor. I stayed home and matched socks, made smoothies, one bad pot roast, a salad of strawberries and goat cheese, and enough Bolognese sauce to last them until spring. Or until I go back.
I made it to the reunion. I found friends I didn’t know I had, and connected with people that I love as much as I did when I was in high school, when most Saturday afternoon’s we’d drink too much beer and exchange drunken, slobbering hugs, while declaring undying affection. Since I’ve only stayed in touch with a few, it was nice to know that those promises all those years ago were true. My affection for these people is undying and I am glad to know, and have known them.
I’ve changed a lot since then, I guess we all have. But when I stood in that room, I knew I’d made it to Homecoming, even though it had taken a long time to figure out what that means. These people knew the awkward, bumbling seventeen year old and were happy to see the tired, worried, friend who badly needed a night out. I didn’t get the chance to talk in depth with many, and I regret that. I was distracted with guilt about being away from Amy and John and trying to decide if my outfit looked better without the sweater.
When I walked up Amy’s stairs that night, and Gigi greeted me at the door, I was home there too.Home is where we choose to be, where we offer and accept love or acceptance. Where we pretend to remember things we don’t remember, and when someone gets drunk, we drive them home, partly because we don’t want them to get sick in our car, partly because that is what we do for the people who have known us our whole lives, and remember what we looked like with big hair and braces, and partly because a lot of us have been the drunk in the room that needed a ride.
These days, I have a crooked smile, I can’t wear heels. I could still lose another twenty pounds, I’m a little pissed off that I work out every single day and I will never, ever have Michelle Obama arms. One of my classmates does, and I adore her anyway. I will not share her name but we all know who I’m talking about.
Thanks for being there, my friends. And for those of you who couldn’t be, I hope to see you the next time. I like us better now. Please, let me know if you ever get up to Boston, or are driving through on your way somewhere else. I would like to hear what you’ve been doing all these years, and I’m sorry there wasn’t more time.
I think I’ll go to the next one, I can’t wait for the next one.
And thank you, Amy and John. It is an honor to be there for you. I changed my cell phone settings so you can call anytime. You have your own ringtone. Call anytime.
Taylor, girl, come home soon. You have the best home in the world, or it will be, when you are back in it.
Mixed Emotions/ I’m going to my high school reunion in two weeks.
September 19, 2021
I live in Massachusetts and I grew up, mostly, in Jersey.
But Facebook means that even though it’s been years, I know that Jim is a doctor and just got divorced. Laurie just had a grandchild, Emma is a professor and Allan is killing it in real estate.
Facebook means there is a place where everyone from Mountain Lakes shares memories, obits, updates and asks for help- tracking down an old friend, prayers during a battle with cancer, supporting a business, a page, or a cause.
This is the thing, and I’m being careful because the reunion is next week, and I love my hometown. I have connected with people on social media who I didn’t know when I saw them every damn day in the hallways at the high school or in the parking lot at Del’s Village.
When people reminisce about Mountain Lakes, many talk about the town, and their youth, as if it was a spectacular aberration.
Yes, we had parties, and people played guitar. Yes, the parties were really good parties, and the Stanfield’s were the coolest family in the world, they had a fire pit, an open door policy, and their kids were and are some of the best, smartest, funniest, and most amazing people I know, as well as you can know someone years after you shared a beer with them in their backyard.
The football team won all their games. We skated all winter and swam all summer. We went to the Market for sandwiches and Roma for pizza, and the pizza was better than any pizza I’ve had since, including New York. Well, maybe NY pizza was a little bit better, I’m in Massachusetts. I’m deprived.
Mr. Fox was a magical art teacher. I remember what Mrs. Smith taught me in freshman English. Mr. Hoke recited Shakespeare in a baritone that I can still hear. There were bluegrass festivals two towns over, New York City was a bus ride away, I wrote poems on scraps of paper and people read them and said nice things, even though I don’t think they were that good.
I have pictures of me smiling in a black tuxedo and fishnets during something called GAA. a competition between two teams, Blue and the Orange, that happened each spring after months of preparation. Each team would pick a story, and perform it, like a musical with the songs being used as vehicles for different dances and gymnastics. I was excited when I made the the modern dance team, even though I was picked as second substitute. There’s a photo in the yearbook, I had thick thighs and a huge smile. (I didn’t smile between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, or so I’m told, but in that picture, I’m grinning.
Yes, it was a magical wonderful time. But it wasn’t all bonfires and pancake breakfasts.
It was being picked last at gym. Starting to drink beer because it made me a little less shy. Getting crappy grades because I always forgot my textbooks in my rush to be on time to watch General Hospital, bumming cigarettes during lunch, people getting sick of me bumming cigarettes during lunch, getting pinkeye every summer from swimming at Island Beach, not eating much and lying on the floor to put on my jeans because I’d had cereal for breakfast. Smoking pot and feeling dumb. Taking up beer and Marlboro lights with the enthusiasm some reserved for field hockey and making the honor roll. Not ever having a clue about what was coming next or where I wanted to land.
These memories aren’t specific to being a young person in Mountain Lakes. They aren’t specific to being young in the 80’s, young and privileged, young and female.
They are just some of the things I think of when I look back.
For many people, in Mountain Lakes, NJ, and Milton, Massachusetts, our memories are where we like to linger because now is so damned hard.
We tell ourselves and our children about life back then, and it all sounds glorious.
But I’m pretty sure we leave stuff out, or forget the worst. I do.
Because the now, with the sore hip and the Covid, the retirement looming and the dental bills mounting- it’s nice to look back to anything other than what I see in the mirror before I’m ready to look.
I just wanted to say Mountain Lakes was a great place to grow up. So is Milton. So are a million other places.
But, it was’t perfect. For me anyway. I still can’t wait to go back.
It will be nice to walk down the Boulevard and stand on the beach by Birchwood Lake.
It will be good to see people in three dimensions, especially after this past year. It will be nice to look back on all of the hard parts, the stuff I’d never talk about on Facebook, or with anyone. For me, growing up was one quarter bliss and Bruce Springsteen and three quarters braces and diets, wondering what to say next and wishing I’d said something else or nothing at all.
I’m grown, and I’m in pretty good place right now.
It’ll be nice to take a weekend to remember how I got here.
Letter To My Father (It’s About Time.)
August 21, 2016
I read a poem
written by someone else’s daughter
About her mother, who has Alzheimer’s.
Judy spoke of her mother’s journey,
Of her need
To be let go.
She spoke of clocks, conversations, lunch round noon,
snow bout mid December,
and all the parts of life
that are defined
by knowing what is going on,
what has happened,
and what will likely happen next.
A million pieces of knowledge tether
Most of us,
To know the date most days.
Class is Wednesday night,
Colin plays on Saturday at nine fifteen,
I need to be at work by nine,
Katy’s birthday is coming in two weeks.
I am never sure what time it is, and sometimes
I think Wednesday’s Thursday, or I lose an hour or a week.
I’m not sick like her, or like you were.
When it took over,
your eyes were clouds,
your lips made shapes,
your tongue made sounds.
Your muddy eyes would take me in,
or the wall behind me,
or a angry nurse marchcing down the hall.
Your lips would purse, then open, close,
more like a fish
Than like a man.
You’d smile when I’d offer up
A cigarette
And smoke it
Unlit and upside down.
Your eyes were clouds,
They belonged inside a winter sky, not on a face,
but I never let them go.
I would
Bring you taboo cigarettes,
I would fix your shirt, wipe your chin
and when his mouth moved
I’d lean close.
I’d smell the spit, the sour breath, last week’s
applesauce, the sweat
And I would listen
Because I knew you
Would never leave without saying your goodbye.
You were a gentleman.
I never let my you go,
Not when you’d already left,
Not when you still looked at me
and knew my name,
Not in all those spaces
in between\
And afterwards
And now.
Walk With Family After Dark
January 9, 2016
Tonight was all about dogs, daughters and dads.
I took Sophie the sweetest and a puppy named Gunner to Turners Pond for a ramble under the moon.
Katy and a friend followed behind, i don’t know if they agreed to come along because Katy is kind, and I spend a lot of time alone walking the dog. Or if the simple fact that the wind had stopped and the moonlit fooled her into thinking it was warmer than it was- I don’t know.
Ahead, the dogs and I ran, and slowed and sniffed (they sniffed, I watched them sniff and tried not to think about what they were sniffing) and ran and jogged and trotted and stopped.
I was listening to Neil Diamond.
I grew up listening to Neil Diamond. My dad died when I was 20, yet when I put the headphones in my ears, and put on Cracklin Rosie, and turned it UP, I could hear Dad’s voice, singing along. There was the most subtle hint of the South in his voice, and he stayed right on key.
So I walked around the pond five times. I was watching the dogs, running alongside the dogs, waiting for the dogs.
I was catching little pieces of Katy and her friend’s conversation. They are 12 year old girls and they do not giggle. At least not when I’m within earshot. I think they were discussing a science test, or how Katy never lets the power go below 1% on her phone, or what kind of dog they want when they grow up. Twelve year old girls, smart 12 year old girls, aren’t the most interesting subjects for eavesdropping.
Maybe they were speaking in code.
And right next to me, inside my head, was my dad. He was singing alongside Neil Diamond, and actually sounded better than the pop star. I was listening to one of more recent albums, way after Love on the Rocks.
I thought about switching to one of the records Dad and I used to listen to- Tap Root Manuscript, or Stones, so I could remember what Mr. Diamond sounded like in his prime.
But I wasn’t listening to “Solitary Man” or “Sweet Caroline”. I was remembering my dad’s voice, how he used to always sing “Something” by the Beatles in the shower leave records all over the dining room table, how proud he looked while he watched me play my flute and the night he spent four hours listening to the “Wild and Innocent and the EStreet Shuffle” in attempt to try to understand what I liked about Bruce Spring. “Julie, he can’t sing. I mean, really, he can’t sing.”
I hadn’t remembered my father’s voice for a long time until tonight.
Dogs, Daughters and Dad.
The last song I listened to was “Thank The Lord for the Night Time.” Dad always liked that song, I think it was pretty much his party anthem.
My wild nights are home with kids, or at the gym, or following Sophia around with a bag in my hand.
But I am my father’s daughter. I may go to bed early by his standards, but I never wake up until after dark.
That’s when I’m wide awake. That’s when I make time to listen.
Dark September and Beautiful Music
September 21, 2015
This has been a dark fall.
There are the regular stressors of back to school/oh my god where the f did summer go?
There has been the gradual, overnight change in relationship with my fifteen year old son. I’ve decided to trust him and, with certain boundaries we are currently in the process of working out, give him provisional freedom. If that sounds like I don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s because I don’t have a clue.
I had tried being a proactive parent-not-friend; “this is non negotiable” coming out of my mouth during every single conversation we had. We were living in a war zone. He felt invaded which is not surprising considering I spent all my time figuring out how to sneak into his snap chat.
We share the house with my daughter, 2 cats, a dog and their father. Whenever my son and I were in the same room, every one else took cover. Cats hid in bathtubs, the dog found sanctuary inside the shoe closet, my daughter actually spent so much time outside cleaning the shed, it’s clean.
But I couldn’t stand viewing my son as an enemy that must be conquered, and wasn’t crazy about being seen as a dictator that needed to be manipulated.
We are currently experimenting with- don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t come home wasted, get good grades… and I’ll leave you alone.
It’s a process.
That was the first week of September.
Last week, I got news a girl from my childhood, a family friend, was killed by her husband. She called the police and told them she was afraid for her life. The police kept her on the phone for two minutes. The phone went dead. Her husband called them back and confessed to killing her, and told them he was going to shoot himself in the head as soon as he hung up the phone.
She was 48 years old.
A few nights ago, I went to the wake of a five year old girl that died of leukemia. The little girl was in an open casket Her twin sister sat in a chair twenty feet away, playing with dolls.
The weather has been hot and beautiful, with September breeze and cobalt blue skies.
I haven’t wanted to get out of bed in the morning. I’m grieving for summer, the days when all I needed to parent was an agreed upon curfew and a secret stash of gummy bears, a good nights sleep, the rise of Donald Trump, the little girl playing with the doll five feet away from her cold, cold sister, and my friend, Laurie.
Sp this weekend, I went to the pond with a friend, and we swam across and around, and then across again. I sang along to the radio with my daughter on the ride home.
I took her and her friends to the dance, and listened to them chatter in the car afterwards, like I might find the meaning of life and how to go on inside their discussions of what happened in the Gaga pit, who likes to dance, who is going to be what on Halloween and how old is too old to dress up as fruit. It was decided that a person is never to old to dress up as fruit.
I took a different bunch of kids to Nantasket Beach today. We were the only ones in the water- it was sixty degrees. I dove under a wave, the cold stole my breath, I sprung to the surface and tilted my face to the sun. We laughed a lot, loud, enjoying how the people on the beach building castles, looking for lost phones or sea glass, looked at us. We were swimming in late September. We were laughing and diving and waiting for the tide to roll in. We wanted waves, real waves, to ride on our bellies, till we flopped on the shore with sand on our face, in between each toe, in the lines of our neck… But the tide didn’t come in and we were hungry.
We ate pizza and ice cream and came home.
This morning, “Somewhere over the Rainbow” came on, sung by the Hawaiian boy while he plays the ukelele.
My daughter let out a sound when she heard his voice, and ran to me. “That is the boy that died, mom, that died because he couldn’t breathe, because he was too big.”
She shivered. I reached over, I pulled her close to me. I put my arms around her shoulders and we stood still and swayed to the beautiful sounds of that boy singing that beautiful song.
I held onto her, she held on to me, and we listened. For a few moments, we were all in it together, I knew it was going to be all right. Never the same, times even harder and sadder are sure to come, but as long as there is someone I love around to hold me while we listen to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s promise that “someday, over the rainbow, bluebirds, fly…” I’ll remember how blessed I am to be sharing this corner of the world with the people I love.
When there are no beautiful moments, or good friends, or sweet songs available to lift me up , there are the daily tasks to be done. There is comfort in the putting away of socks in the right drawer, matched and folded, sweeping the kitchen, rearranging the books, and selecting clothes for tomorrow at work.
It is both the sweet, unscripted moments with the people I love and the sacred, regular rituals that I need that allow me to move forward, in times of grief and loss-
It’s raining out.
The car is wide open. Have you seen my keys?
Scratch that, can you help me find my keys.
I’m not mad.
your homework is in your backpack.
I love it when you rub my back. I’ll pick you up for dance class at 4 o’clock.
Don’t you love that song? Really love that song?
im sorry I haven’t brushed my teeth, I need to brush my teeth before I talk to you?
You need to comb your hair. Not before you talk to me, before you leave.
Where’s the peanut butter?
You took it the wrong way, you’ll see.
It’ll work itself when you see her in school.
I can’t live without peanut butter.
Oh my God- that can’t be true. What. happened.
Have you seen my black dress? My dark shoe?
You remembered to bring me coffee.
I love you. I wish you’d stop and just think sometimes.
i love you. I love you. I will always love you, even before you brush your teeth.
I Love You.
Places I Have Been To
September 10, 2013
I went to church last Sunday. It was the first Sunday of the church year. Everyone came early for a pancake breakfast hosted by the youth group. I’d actually been at the church since Saturday night since I had been one of the chaperones for the pre-pancake breakfast youth sleepover. (I am either a very brave or a very stupid woman.) As I moved around the halls, directed guests to the bathroom, and found a sugar bowl for somebody in the kitchen, it occurred to me- I feel at home here. I am a member of the club.
You know the feeling I’m talking about? When all the sudden you look around whatever space you are in and realize- you know where stuff is. You know the names of people around you, you even know if they are people worth knowing, and you move thru hallways and rooms with ease.
The church is the latest in a long series of places I made my own. I’m sure for many, school is the first thing that comes to mind. Not for me. As a matter of fact, for all the time I spent in school, my memories are mostly of feeling lost. Literally. I have a lousy sense of direction, every year classrooms are different, they were usually located on different floors. Kids in classes changed, and every few years, buildings changed. To make matters really difficult, when I was 12 my family moved from Pennsylvania to New Jersey.
I suppose, on a much smaller level, I got a sense of it over at friends houses. Going over to Leslie’s and being able to drink from the water jug in the fridge reserved for family members. Over at my first boyfriend’s house, I was entrusted with the location of spare key, and knew the names of all of his cousins. He only had three cousins, but I’m not that good with names. And of course, the Stanfields. Their home became the back up home to many teenagers in Mountain Lakes. I knew where to find the corn nuts, and what bedroom was likely to be unoccupied, or mostly unoccupied. Of course, so did about seventy five other kids between the ages of 15 and 18. But it was nice, knowing my home wasn’t my only home. Especially since things weren’t always so easy in my home growing up.
Skip forward quite a few years. My first true sense of belonging to a group, and knowing where I fit in, was when I settled in Boston, and discovered the club scene. And the bands. (And the members of bands. Whole nother story.) And the drugs, and the right ratio of drugs and alcohol for just the right buzz. I remember how it felt to saunter up to the front a line, nod at the bouncer and walk in a front door. How I felt so damn special to be granted entrance into a dark, crowded smoky room, with minimal bathrooms, insane lines- to buy a drink, pee, even to grab a seat. I became familiar with the bartenders, did my research and sought out the johns no one else knew about, and became particularly skilled at lurking behind someone getting ready to leave, then swooping in for their spot at the bar before they’d even picked up their keys. I knew where the stairs were, where the elevators were, where the back doors were, who bartended on which night, and who might be willing to pay for my drinks.
And the best part… Everybody knew me. By name. After years of feeling pretty damn anonymous, I had circles and circles of friends. I had friends to go out to dinner with, friends to sleep with, friends to stay up all night with, friends to play scrabble with… I had lots and lots and lots of friends. I spent piles of money, had, from what I remember a damn good time, and woke up from it all when I was pregnant with my first child.
Then I went back to feeling like I had in school, a little bit lost.
When I sat down to write this, I was going to list all of the places in my life that weren’t my home, but that felt like home.
And this is what I found out- there were the clubs in Boston and Cambridge in the 90’s, there is the space between my two kids anywhere in the whole world, and there is my church. My church is a place that practices something called “radical hospitality”, and I guess they really, truly do. At least in my case. My church is a place where we have twenty minute conversations about which class will work for a nine year old who is more mature than most, but needs to make more friends in his grade. It is a place where there is always coffee, though I often have to make it, or find the filters. Where the minister is my friend, and I swim with the Youth Advisor most mornings, (not at the church, it’s not that nice.) And where when the conversation turns to Social Justice, and it often does, it is not in the abstract.
I’m glad I finally found my way there.
julierichmond 